Five
Jack
“Wait a minute. Stop right there.” My brothers and I were sitting at Pete and Georgia’s kitchen table going over expenses, when Pete said something about a marketing budget. “Why the hell do we need a marketing budget?”
“Well, for one thing, the PR consultant is coming tomorrow, and I’m pretty sure she expects to be paid for her time,” Brad said.
I stared at both of them. “What PR consultant?”
“The one we hired last week to help us promote what we’re doing,” said Pete. “And can you please keep your voice down? Cooper is finally quiet.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I snapped, although I tried to lower my voice. My one-year-old nephew, Cooper, had a hard time falling asleep on the nights when Georgia worked. I adored him—and I sympathized. “I never agreed to any fucking consultant.”
“That’s correct, you didn’t.” Brad was maddeningly calm. “But we outvoted you. The three of us own this business together, and we each have an equal say in how it’s run.”
“So you didn’t even tell me you went ahead with it?” I was yelling again, but I couldn’t fucking help it. I hated it when they sprung shit on me.
“Hey, it was you that stormed out after you didn’t get your way,” Pete said. “We sat here and discussed it for a while. And we decided that it would be worth the added expense to hire someone to help us promote.”
I crossed my arms. “We can’t afford it.”
“We can’t afford to do nothing, either,” Brad said. “Dad was a good farmer with ideas ahead of his time, but he was a terrible businessman, so we inherited a huge amount of debt when we took over. Then we had to buy Mom out when she moved to Florida.”
“I’m not a fucking idiot,” I snapped. “I know all this.”
“We also have families and our own bills to pay.”
They had families. I didn’t, and the reminder didn’t help. “Hey, it’s not my problem you’ve got an ex-wife who sued for alimony. Maybe you should have thought of that before you fucked around.”
“Hey.” A warning note from Pete. “Don’t be a dick about this. We’re doing good things here, Jack, but organic farming isn’t cheap. And what good will our principles and hard work do us if we can’t keep the lights on?”
“And competition is stronger now,” said Brad. “The market is getting saturated. We need to do what we can to stand out.”
I sank deeper into my chair, a scowl on my face. I didn’t need any reminders about competition or market saturation or debt or mortgages or anything else on the list of Reasons Why Farmers Have the Highest Suicide Rate of Any Profession.
Pete put a hand on his chest. “Listen. I’m a chef, not a businessman, Jack. You’re an ex-Army Sergeant with farming in your blood and a commitment to doing it responsibly. But if we want to keep this place going, we’ve got to start thinking of it as a business too.” His voice softened. “I know it was always a dream of yours and Steph’s. But it’s more than a dream now, Jack. It’s reality. For all of us. And if you want to keep it, we have to invest in it.”
“Look, we know you,” Brad said. “We are well aware that you prefer to keep to yourself and do things on your own, your way. And we’ve let you make every major decision so far, supported your vision even though we knew how expensive it was going to be. Fuck, I was ready to sell this entire place when that soybean guy expressed interest. I never wanted to be a farmer.”
“Me neither,” said Pete. “I saw the ups and downs Mom and Dad dealt with year after year and wanted something more stable for my family. But you had a vision, a good one. It was enough to convince me to move back and help out. And we have history here. We want this place to thrive. That won’t happen unless people know about it.”
From the monitor on the counter came the sound of Cooper crying, and Pete sighed. “Dammit.” He started to get up, but I stood faster.
“It’s my fault. Let me.” Grateful for a break from the discussion, I switched off the monitor on the kitchen counter and headed up to Cooper’s bedroom. My bad mood lifted as soon as I saw him, and I scooped him up from his crib. “Hey, buddy.”
He continued to cry as I reached into the crib for the soft little blanket I’d given to him when he was born. It was about six inches square, pale blue, and it had a bunny head on one corner. “Bunny” was one of the only words Cooper said, and he was rarely without it in his little grasp.